


On The Stroll

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And A Bit Of A Larf To Finish, Because It's a Poppy fic, Client!Sherlock, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, Implied Sherlock/John/Greg, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, M/M, Or More Amusingly John!Sherlock, Prostitution Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, rentboy!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:02:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not sure about these too-tight jeans and whether he can commit to playing the role of rentboy for Sherlock's amusement and gratification, but he's certainly willing to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Stroll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



> Yum-delicious (and kind of weirdly challenging to me as a writer, so thank you!) prompt from YoursTruly: Prostitution Roleplay with Sherlock as the client.
> 
> My usual warning applies: I reserve "E" ratings for rape/non-con/extreme violence. Graphic sex ahead! But you knew that from the tags!

“. . .It’ll probably be fun, you’ll see. You’re a good sport for agreeing to give it a go.” Greg’s voice in John’s ear was a comfort, and those few belts of Macallan were doing their work on his nerves, as well.

“Right,” John said, glancing up and down the block at loitering young men, stationed at seemingly regular intervals under street lamps, in doorways, smoking, working their phones. He leaned against the brick wall and felt the scraping catch against the fabric of his t-shirt. He lifted one foot, planting it against the wall at knee-height; he’d seen hustlers in movies strike this pose. “ _Fun_. Only I’m no actor. You’ve heard me trying to do accents. They’re all the same. Bad German.”

“Just. . .I guess you just commit to it.” John could hear the shrug in Greg’s voice. “Can’t wait to hear about it when you both get home, if I’m honest.”

“I ought to be committed, all right,” John muttered. He tried hooking one thumb in the hip pocket of his jeans—much too tight for a man of a certain age. The t-shirt, too. Who were Seaway supposed to be, anyway? He assumed it was a band; maybe not, now he thought about it. He had an urge to do a web-search, but a quick gaze up the block revealed a familiar silhouette strolling in the shadows between the streetlights. “Oh, there he is now. Talk to you later.” His fingers shook a bit as he ended the call and slid the phone in the back pocket of the jeans, which was silly, of course, this was all just play, but still.

Cleared his throat, then again. Sank into one hip. Affected alluring disinterest, if that were something one might affect. A quick swipe of sweaty palms on his denim-clad thighs, and he hooked one arm behind his back, catching the opposite elbow, which served to press his torso forward, pelvis particularly. That worked.

And here he came, suit jacket unbuttoned, one hand in the hip pocket, walking much slower than his normal pace. John peeked up from under his eyelashes; god he was gorgeous. An angular, slim-hipped reminder why John had agreed to this. But now: Time to commit.

“Looking for a date?”

Sherlock stopped just past him, pivoted, drew out his hand from his pocket. Between fingers and thumb, folded notes in the sterling money clip John had given him for his birthday. A grin Sherlock couldn’t stifle flickered for an instant before he turned hard-faced again. He leaned back, looked John up and down, then up again, so slowly John could feel the gaze deform the air around him, raising the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck. Sherlock sounded utterly bored  as he replied, “I could be.”

John swallowed hard, then stroked his palm upward over the fly of his too-tight jeans, highlighting the shadowy shape of his already-warming prick. So at least his cock was fully committed, it seemed, at the familiar rumble of Sherlock’s lowered voice and the church-like scent of his aftershave. Not to mention the curve of his bum in those trousers.

A slight nod from Sherlock, and a tilt of the head as if he were trying to see around John to his backside. John had never felt so objectified; it was weirdly thrilling.

“How much?” The notes slid free of the clip, which Sherlock smoothly pocketed. He started to fan the cash apart.

“Depends what we’re talking about.”

Sherlock’s grin this time was sly and John could tell he was pleased with the way things were unfolding. John slid his hand from the ring-neck of his t-shirt slowly down his torso, and his nipple tightened beneath the black t-shirt, and he was sure Sherlock noticed.

Sherlock looked furtive, glanced left and right, then into the street, where traffic was limited to cars rolling by every five or ten minutes, ridiculously slowly, now and then windows sliding down as drivers beckoned young men forward to engage in negotiations just like this one. Well, not precisely. This was all fun and games, and those were all too real. John had a vision of walking the block pressing cash into every hand, encouraging them to call their mothers and ask to come home.

Sherlock cut off his altruistic line of thought with a warm, damp whisper against the curve of his ear. “I want to fuck your face. Then we can finish each other by hand?”

John wanted to groan, subverted it into a sort-of-bored hum, as if this were business as usual. “Seventy-five.”

“No condoms,” Sherlock added, in a tone both demanding and dangerous.

“Hundred fifty.”

“Ha!” Sherlock leaned away again, moved as if to tuck his money back in his pocket. John’s hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“Hundred, then.”

Sherlock rocked on his heel, looked as if he was considering. After a long moment, he jerked his head to the left, indicating John should follow, and started to walk. John hesitated a half-beat before pressing his back up away from the wall and loping after Sherlock, who sidestepped into an alley barely wide enough for side-by-side rubbish bins. As soon as John stepped into the shadows, Sherlock’s massive hand landed on his shoulder and dragged him close, nearly chest to chest.

“Do you kiss?” Sherlock demanded, and thrust his opposite palm between John’s legs, dragged upward, feeling with narrow fingers for the shape of John’s growing erection behind the fly. There was something odd about the sensation, though, and it took John a moment to recognize why: Sherlock’s hand was still full of the folded-up cash, and he was stroking it up and down along John’s cock. John mirrored the movement with his own hand against the front of Sherlock’s nubby-silk trousers, and Sherlock’s pelvis rocked hard against him in answer.

“Not you,” John answered, unsure what it meant, but it sounded bratty and brash, so.

“On your knees then, and be quick about it.” Sherlock shoved the notes so nimbly into John’s hip pocket it barely registered beyond a back-of-mind “oh, now that’s fucking hot as hell”, and all at once Sherlock’s heavy hands on his shoulders pressed downward, and John shook him off as if resentful of the client’s impolite brusqueness. But after a cursory check for anything awful in which he might accidentally land, John knelt and reached for Sherlock’s trousers-front. He raised his face in the half-light, stared hard at the pale face tilting down to watch him as he unfastened the hook, thumbed the button though its hole, slid the zip. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue around in two wet rotations to make his lips shine.

“OK if I get a bit rough with you?” Sherlock asked, his voice improbably loud, no furtive whispers from him, even here below a window with light shining through it. His long fingers raked the wrong way through John’s hair, settling at the back of his head, gently guiding him closer.

“Whatever you like,” John shrugged back, and one hand held the fine fabric of the trousers aside while the other reached in and down (consistent rejection of undergarments one of Sherlock’s better attributes), cupped and pulled and lifted until Sherlock’s half-hard prick and bollocks were exposed and in easy reach. One more quick lick of his lips and he tilted his head, leaned in, lapped a long, slippery stroke of his tongue up along Sherlock’s lightly-fuzzed balls until his lips met the base of his cock. John’s open lips and swirling tongue worked their way toward the crown of the soft-skinned length, which swelled and warmed in response. John hummed.

Sherlock’s hand in his hair shifted to grip him by the jaw, and the other hand claimed the base of his skull. “What about _very_ rough?”

“I can take it,” John assured.

“Excellent.”

All talk ended then, as Sherlock pressed forward, fast and hard, into John’s mouth, steadying his head with those huge hands. John braced himself against Sherlock’s thighs, felt the muscle shifting beneath his palms. Sherlock’s cock invaded his mouth, the back of his throat, and John found himself with no choice but to hold his breath. Sherlock shifted up and back in several quick pulses, never really backing out, the salt-and-bitter taste of leaking pre-cum smearing the back of John’s throat.

When Sherlock finally relented, John was torn between gagging and gasping, chose breath over comfort, sucking air between gamely licking and sucking at the head of Sherlock’s prick.

“Good lad,” Sherlock gruffed, and it sounded more like a threat than praise. John’s cock surged behind the snug front placket of the overtight jeans. Without another word, and certainly before John had fully caught his breath, Sherlock clamped his palms around the sides of John’s jaw and John’s lips were forced apart by another harsh thrust of Sherlock’s oozing prick into his mouth. Sherlock bucked urgently into him—John couldn’t remember another time when Sherlock had been so aggressive and selfish, and despite the ache of his jaw and the developing rawness deep in the back of his throat, he found it maddeningly sexy. Checking his balance on knees and the flexed toes of his trainers, he quick-slid his hands around from the front of Sherlock’s thighs to knead his buttocks, fingertips greedy against the silk of his trousers, wondering vaguely if he dared reach up to tug them down.

Time for wondering whether or not “the client” would object to his “rentboy” furthering his state of minimal undress wasn’t abundant, though; Sherlock was working John’s mouth so hard he was beginning to panic for breath. His lips and chin were spit-soaked, his tongue uselessly flattened against his teeth. He forced his eyes open, looked up expecting to see Sherlock’s head lolling sideways or thrown back, was surprised to see specks of light beneath the heavy brow glinting back at him instead: Sherlock was watching with that peculiar intensity he had as he fucked John’s mouth.

Tears were by then streaming down John’s cheeks, and he grasped hard at Sherlock’s arse, pulling him closer, urging him on, despite John’s quite desperate need to breathe.

Quick grunting moans from Sherlock then, with each jut of his hips, and he rambled in a barely-there whisper, “ _Oh look at you **look at you** good lad look at your pretty tears oh **fuck**_ —“

He released John’s head, let his pelvis rock backward as he gripped his cock firmly in the circle of thumb and forefinger to stop himself coming in John’s mouth, or on his face. John couldn’t keep from gagging a bit, raised his face straight toward the sky and widened his throat, dragging air over the rubbed-raw patch farther back in his throat than he’d imagined it was possible to tolerate. Once his breath had settled a bit, he did feel rather chuffed to have accommodated Sherlock so well. Then he felt rather ridiculous for being pleased at what a good, wide-and-wet-mouthed whore he’d turned out to be.

“ _Up_ ,” Sherlock demanded, and actually pinched John’s ear and started to pull upward. The shock of bright pain dragged John right back into the moment, and he scrambled to comply, hands grabbing at Sherlock’s clothes to pull himself up to stand. John spit into his palm, licked the flats of his fingers, reached down between them and shoved Sherlock’s hand out of the way to stroke his prick. Sherlock’s breath caught— _mmf_ —and then he muttered, “ _Now_ , do you kiss?”

“Fuck yes,” John growled, and his tongue flicked out to moisten lips that tasted like Sherlock: salty-sour pre-cum, the bright scent of his skin, a hint of bar soap, musky sex-sweat. Sherlock went after John’s mouth with his own just as harshly as he had with his cock, and John thought that if he’d been able, Sherlock would be flicking the tip of his tongue against the spot he’d just abraded with the crown of his drizzling cock. The long palm of his hand groped at John’s crotch in a way that was utterly unfamiliar—possessive, urgent, completely selfish. John released his grip on Sherlock long enough to undo the button and yank the zip, and Sherlock’s busy hand descended through the opening immediately, scrabbling to free John’s prick, detouring briefly to manhandle his bollocks in a way that made John groan needily into Sherlock’s open mouth.

“Here,” Sherlock urged, and presented the palm of his hand. “Lick it.” And John did, sloppily but thoroughly. And then they were leaning heavily, shoulder-to-chest, and Sherlock insisted on continuing the greedy kiss, and John let him despite the fact he wasn’t sure it was true to his role, and they pulled desperately at each other, not quite in time. Sherlock made desperate, high sounds behind his nose, emanating vibrations John felt in his jaw as they kissed and kissed, quite messy and greedy and probably rather disgusting to watch but damn it felt so good. . . _so_ good. . . So. _Fucking. **Good**_.

John knew better than to come on Sherlock’s expensive suit—for all a whore knew, the client was married, or would leave here for a business meeting at midnight with some jet-lagged Australians, or was a serial murderer of sloppy rentboys who came on his custom-tailored kit—so he broke away, pivoted quick so his back was pressed against Sherlock’s front, and wrapped his own hand around Sherlock’s so they could finish him together, and it wasn’t but a few pulls before John was whining against pursed lips, trying not to shout, his cum shooting over the edges of their fingers into the darkness. There were muffled slapping sounds, as each pulse landed on some surface—the ground or a bin or the opposite wall—and then Sherlock’s hands at his hip and shoulder were turning him around again before his knees had even stopped shaking.

“Now,” Sherlock gruffed at him, and dragged John’s palm back toward his own mouth. Sherlock spit into it, then thrust it down again so that John could jerk him. “ _Good_ ,” Sherlock muttered. “Good lad. Make me come.” John obliged, wrist twinging a bit as he worked to counter Sherlock’s rocking up to meet him. He leaned close again, chest against Sherlock’s, and spoke against Sherlock’s long neck.

“Hurry up now. I’ve got more money to make tonight.” He couldn’t think too much about it or he’d never get the words out. Sherlock shuddered, groped for John’s elbow, his waist, something to steady him. “You’re not the first, won’t be the last,” John went on. “I fancy you a bit, though.” He broke rhythm long enough to smooth the curve of his palm around the wet crown of Sherlock’s swollen prick, then squeezed, and slid. “Maybe next time I’ll let you fuck me.” Sherlock sucked a loud breath, more of his weight leaning against John than the wall behind him by then, his long body tense, shoulders rigid even as his hips rolled up and back, up and back. . . “Right up against this wall maybe, hook my knee up on your elbow to open up for you, costs more but you’ll like it.” Sherlock groaned loudly, muffled it against John’s shoulder as John worked to support the heavy forward lean, the suddenly unpredictable rocking and thrusting. “I know you’ll like it, like fucking me. Come on, then. . .hurry up.”

Sherlock balled up the back of John’s t-shirt in one fist, let out another loud moan against the skin of John’s neck, and even as he came his hips went on rolling, the motion smoothing out as John shifted his hand to catch what he could in his palm, and he whispered, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s good. That’s what you came for.”

Sherlock drew himself up and back, shook his head hard as if to clear it. He tucked himself into his trousers, zipped and fastened them, smoothed his hand inside the waistband to be sure his shirt was properly tucked. John wiped Sherlock’s cum on the side off his own denim-clad thigh, then started to re-dress himself as well, but the tight jeans and his still partially-hard prick were proving to be imperfectly compatible. He was about to laugh— _god, Sherlock, look at this_ —when Sherlock, who was wiping the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief drawn from the interior pocket of his suit jacket, suddenly rumbled. “Thanks. I’ll see you. . .around,” and started out of the alley.

John stood stupidly, utterly gobsmacked, for a second before he resumed packing up the equipment, making ready to run after Sherlock. They hadn’t really discussed it but John had assumed they’d at least go home together, share a taxi, honestly, where was he—

“Wave to my brother, by the way.” Sherlock said cheerily, and pointed high up and to the right just before he made the turn out of the alley. Sure enough, John spotted a surveillance camera. Coincidentally—surely it was coincidental—there came the sound of a police siren in the distance, but getting closer. Better safe than sorry, though, John jogged out of the alley, raced to catch up with Sherlock’s vanishing silhouette already far up the pavement.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: fuckyeahfightlock  
> Twitter: @FicAuthorPoppy (teasing my next big project with twitter hints throughout May!)


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